


Skinny for the Prince

by chikelo



Series: Broad Grins, Shaking Fingers [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anorexia, Binging, Body Image, Crown City, EDNOS, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt, Fasting, Hurt Prompto, Insomnia, Poor Prompto, Restricting, Self-Esteem Issues, weight loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chikelo/pseuds/chikelo
Summary: Prompto has a month and a half before his senior year begins, when Prince Noctis will make his reappearance in the public school system.The only issue is that Prompto is far too big for this eventuality. Taking matters into his own hands, he decides to fix his weight - and fast.A fic exploring Prompto starting his weight loss at an older age, and all the angst that comes with his unhealthy source of motivation. Trigger warning for eating disorders.





	1. Descent

**Author's Note:**

> this fic deals with the manifestation of eating disorders - particularly EDNOS (binging + restricting). please read at your own discretion. also, I changed up the timeline/Prompto's weight at 17 a bit. but, yanno, that's the magic of fiction.  
> (I've never written creatively or for a fandom EVER before, so please go easy on me. <3)

Prompto was not having a good morning.

  
He’d woken up with the shameful knowledge that not one, but _three_ binge days had just passed. Contemplating this, he stared at his dark ceiling, heavy curtains blocking out any chance of sunshine. It paralleled his mood accurately.

Fuck.

In the back of his mind, he knew he’d have to get up and face the music (his faulty bathroom scale) eventually, but for the moment he was content to ignore his reality. He curled up in his mess of fluffy pillows and blankets and browsed his phone idly, checking the latest news stories and top posts on his favorite eating disorder forum. Prompto felt unbelievably _safe_ in the middle zone between waking and beginning his day. In this place he carved out for himself, he could imagine his life wasn’t the depressing void it actually was. He could imagine he had real friends, exciting plans, and a skinny body.

Of course, he had none of these things.

Prompto bit his lip as the cold truth crashed over the sleepy haze he'd been in. Frowning, he locked his phone and pushed himself out of the comforting embrace of gentle cotton and sherpa pillows. He stretched his limbs and avoided looking into his bedroom’s full length mirror as he began the Walk of Shame to the bathroom.

First, he used it, and washed his face & teeth thoroughly, taking his time and prolonging the inevitable. For the first time that morning, he acknowledged his own reflection in his bathroom mirror: dark circles marking his eyes, a mess of the ugliest freckles he'd never seen, and irritating fat rounding out his face. He knew he had a jawline in there somewhere – he’d felt for it multiple times – but it was hidden under lonely nights and calories and shame. His prodding look darkened into a hateful one as his eyes ran over his perceived faults over and over and over.

Anyway. The scale.

Prompto peered at it out of the corner of his eye. Right.

Sighing, he removed the t-shirt and boxers he slept in and made sure the Hell Contraption was actually level with the ground or it’d give a false reading. He hesitated, taking a shaky breath and trying to remind himself of the frou-frou crap he saw on the internet about how weight doesn't define him. Like he ever believed that shit. He shook his head steeled himself. One foot, then another, and then closed eyes tentatively opening to acknowledge the truth.

Two hundred.

Two hundred pounds at five feet, ten inches.

Shock and cold fear coursed through his blood, rapidly drawing feeling away from his extremities. Prompto stumbled off the scale until his back hit the bathroom door, at which point he sank down and cried into his knees. His fat, fleshy knees. He pinched at the substance of them, hard, hoping to draw bruises as his mind raced.

200 pounds. 200 pounds. 200 pounds. 200 pounds. 200pounds200pounds200pounds200pounds 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200 200200200200200200200200200.

_Fuck!_

Traitorous tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes until he was all but bawling. He knew he’d messed up this week but he didn’t think it was enough to push him over the edge, into the evil number that is _two_. Trembling fingers flew over a bright phone screen, confirming the worst: his BMI was 30.4, officially obese.

 _Deep breaths_. Prompto refused to let this throw him into another emotionally-charged binge; that would be the last thing he needed right now. He counted backwards from ten but the panic continued to claw at his throat. He counted again, and again, and one final time before he felt the tremors in his hands lessen and his breath come more evenly.

Shakily, he stood up, pulling on his clothes and wiping his tears with the back of his forearm. He forced his body into motion, taking him to his kitchen and preparing a large cup of lemon tea with three zero-calorie sweetener packets. Prompto then curled up into his worn couch, cradling the beverage like it was the only thing that could give him solace in the world. With a bitter laugh, he realized that was probably true.

In his worst moments, he always paused to take stock of his life. Sipping at the soothing concoction in his empty apartment, he ran facts through his head:

It was the summer before his senior year.

He had a month and two weeks before school began.

He was 17 years old, 5’8”, and – he winced – 200 pounds.

Prince Noctis was spending _his_ senior year outside of the confines of the citadel and in the hell-scape that was public education. He would be at Prompto’s school, according to every celebrity gossip newspaper available.

Prompto had promised Lunafreya he would befriend him. Granted, at the time he was too _heavy_ for Noctis, so he vowed to better himself before trying again. Then the prince was pulled out of school, and Prompto let the years pass unchecked, never quite being able to move past the cycle of emotional binging  & restriction that maintained his hefty frame.

He breathed raggedly. Closed his eyes for long moment, and shot them open again.

Okay. It was simple. There was a solution here.

He would just fast until school began again.

Zero calorie beverages only, coupled with moderate exercise. By the time he was back in the classroom, he might look halfway decent – enough to introduce himself to the Prince, at least. He just had to _stop eating_ for a while. He could do that. He had to.

For the first time that morning, a perverse smile broke out across Prompto’s face, alight with a twisted sense of satisfaction.


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto struggles through the second day of his fast and makes some unexpected plans in the process.

It is the middle of day two, and Prompto is a moment away from giving up.

Currently, he is curled up in his sanctuary of a bed, hugging his stomach in an attempt to keep everything together. His knees are drawn up, and his face is scrunched in agony as he endures another painful hunger cramp, feeling like knives are stabbing directly into his core.

The sensation passes and he gasps in his moment of respite. Damn. He didn’t think fasting would be _this_ hard. Of course, the logical part of his mind knows that once he passes the third day, his system will get used to this state of affairs and the punishing hunger will lessen considerably. In this moment, however, his abdomen is screaming for sustenance and it isn’t letting up.

He worries his lip.

Prompto knows that if he drinks a lot of water, the pangs will ease for a short amount of time. The thought of going into the kitchen when he is this weak-willed, however, gives him pause. He doesn’t want to binge. He really, _really_ doesn’t. And he’s not sure if he trusts himself in the vicinity of food right now.

In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, the number _200_ dances, constantly tormenting him. It morphs into the most delectable looking sandwich he can imagine, bread stuffed with cold cuts and tomato and lettuce and mayonnaise and –

A sharp, sudden cramp interrupts his fantasy, coupled with loud rumbling from his abdomen. Despite himself, Prompto cries out, suddenly grateful his place is devoid of any other people. His cheeks redden as he considers how embarrassingly pathetic he is: a large, unshapely form who daydreams about food and can’t even starve effortlessly.

The thought is enough to steel his resolve again. Before he loses his burst of willpower, he swiftly hops out of bed and speed-walks to his fridge, grabbing a water bottle and slamming the door shut before he can look over anything else. He practically runs back to his personal haven, diving under the covers as if protecting himself from potential bad decisions.

After chugging his water, Prompto feels marginally better. The cramps lessen into more of a dull ache, and for the first time in hours he is able to breathe deeply.

To distract himself, he checks his phone and is surprised to find a text message awaiting him, coming from a vague school friend named Vyv. The two had formed somewhat of a bond over their interest in photography and Prompto liked him well enough, though he’s guilty to admit he mostly feels pathetic standing next to someone large like him. The idea that skinny people only befriended each other would shove itself into the front of his consciousness whenever he was around Vyv, and with a lurch in his chest he’d remember how Noctis had rejected him for being “heavy”, confirming his suspicions.

On top of that, Vyv was a bit socially inept. He had a bit of a “nice guy” complex, believing girls disliked him because they are inherently only into douchebags, and not _gentlemen_ such as himself. Prompto would bite his lip and keep quiet during these long rants, non-confrontational to his core despite how much he disagreed with Vyv’s warped perceptions.

Thus, all things considered, Prompto tried to avoid turning their easy understanding into a real friendship. Vyv seemed to have other intentions, however, if the text lighting up Prompto’s phone screen was any indication.

_Vyv [2:34 PM]: Hello friend! I haven’t seen you all summer! Want to hang out with me and Derrick sometime?_

Prompto considered his options. On the one hand, Vyv was probably the closest thing to a friend he had, and he didn’t mind his equally-nerdy friend Derrick either. He could picture playing a board game with the two and actually enjoying himself. Plus, it was a good way to kill time on his fast.

On the other, Vyv _was_ problematic and hard to put up with. Plus, he and Derrick were overweight, and would probably insist on eating together. Prompto didn’t want anyone to know he hated his body, but pretending everything was normal would mean social eating. Unless…

_Prompto [2:38 PM]: hey dude! hanging out sounds cool. do you wanna get tea and play cones of dunshire at stories tomorrow around 8?_

Prompto was satisfied with this plan. He could kill a few hours at Stories, a nerdy tea house, and wouldn’t have to eat as the late hour he suggested was past dinner. He could continue his fast, and Vyv nor Derrick would be none the wiser.

_Vyv [2:44 PM]: Ok, sounds good. See you then!_

Prompto smiled to himself. Maybe he could have the best of both worlds after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to sneak a Parks & Rec reference in there. Sorry this chapter was short - I promise a longer on is on its way!


	3. Evening with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto meets up with Vyv and Derrick after suffering through a bad morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus, the story starts to get into the swing of things...

Food. Food was everywhere.

Piles and piles of the stuff were neatly arranged on Prompto’s dining room table. It was all his favorites, stretching out over the expanse of the large surface, seemingly infinite. The feast glinted and gleamed in the blinding fluorescent lights of his apartment.

Prompto surveyed his banquet with hungry eyes, simultaneously taking in the complementary, tantalizing aromas. His stomach panged in a now-familiar way. Groaning softly at the sensation, he closed his eyes, paused, and took another deep breath, the inhale perplexingly both satisfying and achingly unfulfilling.

His eyes fluttered open, now hooded. He licked his lips. Gods, this was probably the most action he’d gotten _ever_ , and it was from _smelling food_.

Distantly, Prompto felt lame, but mostly he didn’t care. He continued his weird sniffing-ritual for a few minutes more, and then, suddenly, his hands were reaching out of their own accord.

Grabbing. Taking. Selfish, panicked, shaky, and desperate.

His mind turned off.

Before he could process what was happening, he was eating. Shit, he was _eating!_ A small part of his mind recognized he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as a greasy burger was shoveled into his mouth followed by a handful of fries, flooding his brain with dopamine and eliciting a moan from him.

Fuck, it was so good. It wasn’t only taste, but comfort. Nostalgia. The one thing that got him through his many, many nights alone.

He couldn’t stop. He was frenzied, binging like a man who had never seen food before. All his neurons were firing at once and his brain was chanting at him: _More. More. More. More. More. More. More. More. MORE._

Prompto kept going, frantically filling the cavernous, hollow pit of his stomach.

Burgers. Fries. Curry. Tomato soup. Sandwiches.

He kept going as his stomach grew unbearably heavy, as his breathing became labored, as his throat constricted against the punishing pace at which it was working.

Pizza. Eggs. Pasta. Meat skewers. Rice. Fish sticks.

He kept going until the tens of thousands of calories on his table were consumed, arms shaking as he shoved each morsel into his exhausted mouth.

Ice cream. Milkshakes. Brownies. Cookies. Candy bars.

Finally, finally finished (and done gasping for air), he hesitantly turned to his right and peered into his full-length mirror.

Gazing back was a morbidly obese reflection of him, fat exploding out of every crevice of his body, turning him into a massive balloon of a human. He looked well over six hundred pounds. In his eyes were the most haunted expression he’d ever seen.

Abruptly, Prompto gasped and woke with a start, his heart pounding and his sweat-soaked limbs grasping at his sheets. His mind reeled for an excruciating minute as he struggled to separate dreams from reality.

_It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. I didn’t do that. It wasn’t real. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! It wasn’t real! Calm down! It was just a dream! Fuck!  
_

His mind reeled for ages, and Prompto felt tears roll down his face as he replayed the nightmare over and over. He began clutching at his pillow, wrapping his body around it and thanking the Six that he wasn’t as gigantic as he was in the dream. His fingers flitted down to his thighs, subconsciously pinching, forcefully trying to bruise himself.

An eternity later, he managed to even out his breathing, finally convinced that he hadn’t actually binged. It was just a dream. It was _just_ a dream. As if on cue, his stomach clenched and emitted a low rumble, and for the first time Prompto was elated to feel it, his frenetic panting morphing into a breathy, relieved laugh. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed into his pillow.

Welp. Day three had just begun.

He was bone tired both mentally and physically, but there was no way he’d be able to fall asleep again in the aftermath of that nightmare. Besides, the emptiness of his stomach was too distracting. In fact, Prompto had hardly managed to fall asleep the previous night, suffering through punishing stabs of hunger until he was too exhausted to stay awake.

Sighing, he paused to take stock while playing idly with the fibers of his Sherpa pillow. He had made it through two full days so far. He hadn’t weighed himself yet; he was too afraid. If he could make it through today, however, he would weigh tomorrow morning. And tonight . . . he would be hanging out with Vyv and Derrick.

Remembering this, he groaned low in his throat. Fuck. He regret saying yes, vaguely realizing that was probably the reason he had no actual friends in the first place. That, and the fat thing.

Resigned, Prompto sighed and stood up, ready for another day of starvation.

 

\--------

 

Derrick took in his surroundings with a contented sigh: the warm, familiar faux-brick walls of Stories, the hum of people talking and glasses clinking, the heady perfume of crushed flowers that made up his tea. He felt immensely comfortable here, this café home to dozens of late nights with friends equally as weird as him.

He peered over at his mug at one of those friends now – Vyv, his closest. Together, they were waiting on Prompto Argentum, a happy-go-lucky school acquaintance that always seemed too busy for them. Derrick understood; Prompto was generally well-liked, attractive, and probably had tons of other friends he saw more often. It was what made tonight so particularly exciting.

“He’s ten minutes late,” Vyv grumbled as he began setting up the game on their favorite corner table, snapping him out of his distracted musing.

Derrick let out a brief chuckle. “You are one high maintenance dude, Vyv.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Vyv laughed back, perfecting the detailed placement of the cones on the board.

As if on cue, a fluffy head of blond hair, a blinding smile, and a smattering of the cutest freckles Derrick had ever seen suddenly made an appearance at their table. Prompto. He waved at them as he set down his bike helmet and keys. He was out of breath – as if he’d pushed his legs to the extreme trying to get there as fast as possible – and had to take a few moments to compose himself.

“Hey guys,” Prompto grinned. “Sorry I’m late! Took too long in the shower.”

Derrick noticed his hair was slightly damp and unwittingly bit his lip at the thought of Prompto showering. _No. Stop being creepy_. It wasn’t Prompto’s fault he was stunningly beautiful – his face delicate, his rare hair color enticing, his body deliciously thick in the right places. He didn’t deserve to be objectified by someone who was meant to be a friend.

So, instead of turning into a sputtering mess of hormones, Derrick swallowed and managed to greet him normally. Vyv did the same, seemingly at ease now that Prompto had showed up with an acceptable excuse. He was blissfully unaware of the one-sided sexual tension playing out in front of him, and for that Derrick was grateful.

Prompto briefly disappeared to buy tea, and before long they were all engaged in their game. Time passed effortlessly as cones moved, belly laughs erupted, and shocking twists kept the group on edge. Around them, similar groups were wrapped up in their own games, warmth flooding throughout the shop and illuminating the cold night.

Derrick couldn’t help but watch Prompto for most of the evening, absolutely enamored by his looks and amicable personality. He noticed, however, a couple things that seemed . . . off.

Sometimes, Prompto’s hands would be trembling as he made his moves. In other moments, he would randomly grab at his abdomen as if it was cramping, a fleeting expression of pain crossing over his face. And once, when he stood up to refill his tea, his eyelids fluttered and he swayed, having to quickly grab the edge of the table to keep steady. He’d made a passing joke about being a klutz at that one, but Derrick wasn’t sure he bought it.

He figured Prompto was probably getting sick and didn’t realize it, and the thought made him worry. Those thoughts eventually morphed into an all-out daydream about taking care of an ill Prompto: smoothing his blond hairs out of his eyes, making him soup, kissing his pain better . . . _Gods, get a hold of yourself, Derrick._

Their game continued into the wee hours of the morning, and around one Prompto had to call it quits. He did that swaying and fluttering thing _again_ when he stood up, and with a start Derrick realized he probably wasn’t in any shape to bike home. But when he offered Prompto a ride, he adamantly refused.

“It’s cool, dude. I wanna enjoy the night,” he’d offered with an easy smile, and Derrick was instantly placated.

And thus they parted ways, Prompto shakily taking off into the streets of Insomnia and Vyv getting into his own beat-up car. Derrick’s thoughts were a mix of concern and adoration, overall feeling elated that he’d gotten closer to Prompto. He decided he’d check up on him tomorrow. Who knows, maybe he’d need Derrick to bring him soup after all.

The idea was enough to send him reeling, and with an impish grin he tore off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor Prompto. if only he could see himself the way Derrick saw him. 
> 
> constructive criticism on my writing so far is not only appreciated but encouraged. i don't know how to write creatively (i've never done it) so i feel like i'm struggling to not make this sound academic since that's all i know. i don't think you guys _want_ to read a research paper, haha. 
> 
> i hope, despite all that, the story manages to flow okay. thank you for reading <3


	4. Weigh-in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morning of day four, Prompto faces his scale.

Prompto felt like shit.

He’d been trying to ignore the negative symptoms since day two, but they only escalated to the point where every aspect of daily life was impacted. Something was off.

His hands would briefly tremble and go cold as they routinely lost feeling. His abdomen was achingly empty to the point where drinking anything _hurt_ rather than comforted. Every time he stood up, black spots increasingly invaded his vision to the point where he was expecting a full-on fainting spell in the near future. He couldn’t even walk without hyperventilating, for fuck’s sake.

Thus, Prompto found himself lying helplessly on his bed on the morning of day four, quite literally _unable_ to get up – not without a great deal of effort, at least.

Distantly, he entertained thoughts of having friends burst into his apartment out of concern, having noticed Prompto’s deteriorating health. They would fawn over him and tell him they cared about his well-being, a warm surprise within his empty walls. For once, he would feel loved.

 _As if that’s happening anytime soon_ , Prompto snorted to himself. _Try losing 75 pounds first. Then maybe you’ll deserve friends._

Shooing those saddening thoughts from his head, Prompto shifted and felt for his phone in the labyrinth of blankets he was entangled in. No one was coming to help him, after all, so he had to help himself. After clicking through a trail of hidden folders, he located the app hosting his favorite eating disorder forum.

Browsing through the Fasting section idly, he quickly discovered there wasn’t much offered in the way of real advice. It mostly consisted of people on their first or second days looking for encouragement or the occasional seasoned faster clarifying specific biological reactions or something equally incomprehensible. Emboldened by the power of internet anonymity, Prompto felt no qualms about posting a thread himself in search for answers.

 

**Topic: how do i NOT die rn**

_Sunshine [9:27 AM]: so, i’m on day four of a long fast and i feel really, really bad. i almost pass out pretty often, my hands shake, and i literally can’t stand without breathing hard. all i’m doing is drinking water, tea, and the occasional diet soda. what am i doing wrong here? how do you guys manage to go for weeks without feeling like death?? thanks pals_

 

Okay, maybe the title was a little misleading, but he figured it accurately summarized how he felt. His post would have gone into more detail, but the exertion of holding his phone up to type was becoming unbearable. Thus, he figured what he had was fine and hit _Submit_ , immediately dropping his arms and taking a few minutes to recover from the effort. Yep. Something was definitely wrong.

Prompto let some time pass, lying on his side with his arm stretched out in front of him as he idly scrolled through image boards consisting of skinny girls and lame "Ana" motivational quotes. After twenty minutes, he figured his question would have at least one response, and was shocked upon finding a barrage of them.

 

_xblossom [9:34 AM]: Try adding electrolytes to your water. Your body needs more sodium and potassium. Idk if you should fast tho  
_

 

_Starvd [9:35 AM]: Why are you fasting?? That’s pretty unrealistic. You’re going to end up failing & binging and gaining it back.  
_

 

_stonecold [9:37 AM]: try glucose tablets.and you might want to eat at least a little bit or you’ll end up going overboard n binging :/ idk just my advice.  
_

 

_dadskeleton [9:40 AM]: Um, maybe fasting isn’t for you?  
_

 

_hepaintsinviolet [9:42 AM]: electrolytes for sure. try to drink less tea and soda, you’re probably feeling caffeine a lot more on an empty stomach. good luck :0  
_

 

_poprock [9:45 AM]: I wouldn’t recommend fasting if you’re complaining on day 4._

 

Prompto bit his lip at that last one. Sure, a lot of people were being assholes, but for some reason the condescending and judgmental tone from this _poprock_ cut the deepest. Eight more comments continued in a similar vein: some vaguely helpful, most telling him to stop fasting and to be more “realistic”. Each criticism burned him like a brand. He’d expected a little bit more understanding from this group, not personal attacks.

With an embarrassed start, Prompto realized he chose to publicly display his weight when he posted, as self-motivation. Being at the high weight he was, everyone probably assumed he was a fad dieter. Not someone with a _real_ disorder, who deserved _real_ advice. They doubted his resolve and brushed him off, encouraging him to quit instead. He wasn’t skinny enough to earn their seriousness. As if he didn’t feel ostracized enough as one of the website’s few males.

Prompto couldn’t help it – a few tears trickled down his face. Of course he didn’t deserve to be taken seriously. _Of course._ He’d allowed himself to get to this atrocious weight in the first place. Trace tears turned to gasping turned to outright sobbing, and for the millionth time Prompto wished he wasn’t alive. His stomach panged dully. He didn’t have a _real_ problem. He was too fat for that.

 _Why do I cry so fucking much?_ Prompto wondered as his cheeks grew wetter and wetter. He hated how he wept, how he seemed to crumble at the slightest offenses. He figured it was probably a side effect of bottling things up publicly, of constantly putting on a happy charade: his heart was strained and his body ached to expel the negativity. Still, he knew he would never stop the act.

_It’ll be better when I’m skinny. I’ll be happy then, for real. Just. Ride it out._

Tears spent, Prompto decided to take the slim offerings of actual advice he received and settled on going to the shop for supplements. Before that, however . . . he had to weigh himself.

Ah. Right.

Prompto rubbed at his face, aggressively drying the evidence of his weakness and willing himself not to do it again. He couldn’t understand why he was so deathly terrified of the scale: after three full days of eating nothing, there was no chance in Hell he’d have gained any weight. _And yet._ His mind kept flickering to the number _200_ staring up at him in silent, judgmental pixels, and his irrational side took over. He fully expected the display to tell him that he was morbidly obese, should seek immediate medical attention, and that both his knees would break from the strain of holding up his impossibly large form _any second now_.

Okay, maybe that was a _tad_ dramatic. But still.

He ran his fingers through his golden hair, pulling out a few strands in his nervousness. Slowly, carefully, he got out of bed. In what felt like no time at all, Prompto completed his morning routine and was now engaged in a stand-off with the Device From Hell.

He glared at it. It didn’t respond.

 _Okay_ , he thought, _this doesn’t have to be hard. Just. Do it. Just get on. There’s no way you gained. Unless there is . . . maybe that binge was real, maybe you’re morbidly obese now, maybe you need some insulin right away and death is imminent holy FUCK –_

Unexpectedly, Prompto laughed. Even _he_ could appreciate how ridiculous his runaway thoughts sounded sometimes. Before he could convince himself to believe them, he surged forward and placed two shaky feet onto the cool glass plating.

His eyes squeezed shut. On the count of three, they shot open.

_194.4_

And for the first time in weeks, a genuine smile lit up Prompto’s face.

_194.4! 194.4! That's 5.6 pounds down in only three days! Holy shit. 194.4!!!  
_

Giddy, he hopped off swiftly to skip into his bedroom, but the blackness that had been dancing at the corners of his vision abruptly became overwhelming. In the span of a moment, Prompto’s eyelids fluttered, his breath caught, and his body gave in to the inky abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (insert side eyes emoji)


	5. Ups & Downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it occurred to me all the chapters so far have been kinda short. thus... here is my best attempt at a longer piece.  
> by the way, for those having trouble picturing what prompto looks like at this height/weight, here is a good visual example that is pretty close:  
> [visual example](http://i.imgur.com/TqSelnz.jpg)
> 
> PLEASE CHECK OUT THE END NOTES FOR SOME AMAZING FANART IM DEAD FOREVER

Darkness. Deep, plunging darkness. Cool tile floors. Eyes tentatively blinking open. A throbbing headache. Pain – the kind born from impact – blooming in bright spots. A low groan. At present, these facets compose Prompto’s entire world.

_What just happened . . . ?_

He tries to bring memories to the surface but it takes effort, and all he gets are glimpses. He remembers waking up. He remembers the scale. He remembers being excited, and turning too fast . . .

_Oh._

He’d passed out. Unexpectedly, a smile blooms on Prompto’s face.

_I fainted. I do eating disorder things like fainting. I’m sick – I’m actually sick! Thank Gods. I’m fucking valid! This time IS for real. This time I’m actually doing it!_

He makes to stand up, dragging and arranging his limbs carefully until he’s on his knees. He then puts one leg out into standing position and gradually rises, clenching his abs in an attempt to keep the blood from rushing away from his head again. _Slow._ He turns to his bathroom mirror, finally getting a decent look at himself for the first time in days.

 _Oh._ Prompto’s left cheek and forehead are decorated with bright red splotches that he knew were the beginnings of ugly bruises. He glances down his body and sees more of the marks along his collarbone area and on his left forearm and thigh. Already, he’s fond of them: he likes seeing his atrocious body mottled with pain. It’s what it deserves.

Besides the bruising, he could tell he was . . . smaller, somehow. Of course, three days doesn’t bring about spectacular visual results, but Prompto still felt as if the permanent bloat around his face had drained, if only by a bit. Though he was far from skinny, something still felt altered in his appearance. _Gaunt,_ he decided. _That’s the word._ It was not a look that could be borne from a healthy approach to weight loss; no, it displayed a sense of haggardness in Prompto’s features.

With a wicked grin, he remembers what the scale had read. _194.4. I'm not obese anymore. Thank Shiva._ Smiling, he rubs at his face and sighs contentedly, relishing in the achy pangs emanating from the impacted areas. He would keep getting thinner and thinner, and by the time school started he’d look normal enough for Noctis. Thank. The. Fucking. Gods.

He savored the good news for a while more before turning his attention to the next practical step. While fainting spells were great for validation, Prompto didn’t want to make a habit of them. He desperately needed to get to the shop for electrolytes and glucose tablets and broth cubes and whatever else would prevent his brain from randomly cancelling.

Intent on his mission, he turned to go back to his bedroom to change. It was just then, however, that a soft _ping_ escaped his phone, which was sitting on the bathroom counter. A text? Prompto eyed it, and then swiftly grabbed the device.

_405-112-5023 [10:19 AM]: Hi Prompto! It’s Derrick! Vyv gave me your number, I hope that’s OK. I was just texting to make sure you were all right. You seemed like you might have been getting sick or something yesterday. Checking in in case you need anything :)_

Prompto’s eyebrows knit, unknit, and then knit again. To say he was confused was an understatement. Of course, Derrick had probably noticed his hunger-induced shakiness and interpreted that as illness. That was understandable. Why he’d ever bother to “check in” on someone like Prompto, and even offer his _help_ . . . that was the confusing bit.

He locked his phone, needing more than a moment to think about how to respond, and began going through the motions of getting dressed. Derrick. Derrick. What did he know about Derrick? Not much, to be frank. He was a tad overweight, but not by much. Tall (taller than Prompto, at least), and brunet with olive-colored skin. Inoffensive features. Wavy hair, which was a little interesting. In general, he was always quieter than Vyv, coming off as a little standoffish in his silence. Prompto always thought Derrick didn’t really like him because of that fact, honestly. Yet here he was, going through a mutual friend to find his number and looking out for him. So he either pitied how pathetic Prompto looked, or he was genuinely worried. Frowning, Prompto figured it was probably the former.

Still, he took the time to reach out, and that was nice, even if his intentions were a little malicious. Now dressed, Prompto perched on the edge of his mattress and struggled to formulate a casual reply.

_Prompto [10:31 AM]: hi derrick! uh, yeah, I caught a little cold. I don’t need anything though – I’m actually on my way to pick up some medicine rn. thanks for offering though :)_

There. That seemed cool and nonchalant. Prompto hit _Send_ , and was surprised to see an answering response by the time he finished tying his shoes.

_Derrick [10:33 AM]: That sucks, I’m sorry. Hey, are you going to CCS? I actually work there and my shift is in twenty, I could slide you that 15% employee discount ;)_

Prompto bit his lip. He _had_ been planning on going to CCS, as that was the only convenience supermarket that was big enough to carry niche products like electrolyte boosters. The idea of a discount was nice, but he’d have to buy cold medicine too (to keep up the charade). He considered pretending to go elsewhere and waiting until Derrick’s shift was over, but if fainting was any indication, he needed those supplements _immediately_. He was stuck.

_Prompto [10:36 AM]: really? that’d be awesome! It’ll take me an hour to get there by bus though, so I’ll see you later on! thanks, dude!! :^)_

Prompto sighed and flung himself back onto his bed. Damnit. Social interaction, pretending to be sick, and spending his meager savings unnecessarily. This wasn’t going to be fun.

 

* * *

 

Derrick was practically bouncing on his feet at his checkout counter. For the first time in the history of this shitty retail job, he was _excited_ about cashiering. He replayed Prompto’s texts over and over in his mind, smiling fondly at his cute typing style and the genuine excitement he conveyed over something as simple as a discount. He couldn’t believe he’d be seeing him again, and so soon!

In what felt like no time, Derrick spotted a uniquely blond head of hair stroll in. Prompto. He was pulling earphones out of his ear and making a beeline for the pharmaceutical and herbal remedies department, located in the very back of the massive supermarket.

Derrick’s hands went a little numb and he cursed himself for being so nervous. He hadn’t even seen Prompto’s _face_ and yet here he was, reeling and trying to blink away his anxieties long enough to assist the next customer. The boy had quite the effect on him.

“ – young man, are you listening to me? I was telling you that I saw these napkins on sale but now the scanner is saying it’s full price? Must be the radiation from that damn technology, in my day people wrote everything out by hand – ”

“I’ll call a manager right away,” Derrick interrupted, customer service smile at the ready. The elderly woman in front of him did not look pleased.

He became so wrapped up in sorting out the issue that he failed to notice who got in line behind her. Soon enough, the woman was placated and his gruff manager had walked off (mumbling to himself about ‘bullshit customers’), and Derrick looked up to help whoever was next. And proceeded to stop breathing.

Prompto. It was Prompto.

But. It was a Prompto that looked like he’d gotten hit by a bag of bricks. The left side of his face exploded with deep blue bruises, and as Derrick trailed his eyes downward, he noticed them on his collar and arm as well. Distantly he registered Prompto smiling at him, and then wincing at the pain that was surely the product of stretching his injuries out with it.

Derrick’s first thought was, _Who did this?_ and then, _I’ll kill them._

“That kind of thing happen often?” Prompto asked, snapping Derrick out of his reverie.

_What thing? Oh. The lady. What does it matter? Look at yourself!  
_

“Yeah,” Derrick replied, trying not to sound shaken as he scanned Prompto’s products on autopilot. “Lots of folk don’t have much to do except come here and argue over a gil.”

Prompto laughed at that. Derrick bit his lip.

“Hey, Prompto,” he ventured. “What happened to your face?”

Prompto stiffened visibly and his words tumbled out as if rehearsed: “I tripped and fell going into the bathroom this morning. Guess this cold has me more disoriented than I thought, eh?” He smiled forcefully. “It looks a lot worse than it is, trust me.”

Derrick narrowed his eyes. He supposed the bruising _did_ pattern like it came from a fall.

“Thought I’d have to beat up someone for you,” was all he said, smirking with confidence.

It was as if a mountain of tension melted out of Prompto’s shoulders at Derrick’s easy acceptance. “My hero,” he swooned.

Derrick choked on his spit. “U-Uh yeah. Anyway. That’ll be 530 gil,” he blurted. “With the discount, of course.”

He added a wink at that, but it was comically graceless. _Smooth, Derrick._

“Thanks buddy,” was all Prompto said, seemingly unperturbed as he slid his card through the machine.

Derrick stuffed his receipt into the bag of items he hadn’t even remembered bagging. When he handed it to Prompto, their fingers brushed, and he felt as if the whole world was going to implode.

“I’ll see you around,” Prompto said, waving as he made for the exit.

“Yeah! See you,” was all he could manage in response. A moment later, Prompto was gone.

Derrick stared at the automatic glass doors he’d disappeared through in wonder. _“My hero.” Damn._ A slow smile broke out on his face, and he figured he probably looked like the definition of a lovesick goon.

“ – excuse me, are you in there? My husband said you folks will price match on the Legos for my grandson, and I have a coupon for the stool softener – ”

 

* * *

 

Prompto had made it as far as a block before he had to stop and sit at a shaded table in front of a café. He breathed heavily, willing the spots in his vision to recede as he rubbed at his temples. He needed those supplements, and he needed them _now_.

He rested his chin in his hand and gazed at his surroundings, noticing for the first time what building he was in front of. Struck with inspiration, he dove inside and was soon back at his table, complimentary water cup in hand. And yes, he was _that guy:_ the guy who asked for free water in the biggest cup available. The barista hadn’t even minded, however, after taking one look at Prompto’s sordid state.

He grit his teeth at the fresh wave of pain travelling through his skull. His headache was getting worse, his vision was blurred, and exertion was draining. Shaking hands dove into crinkly plastic, and, after fumbling for a bit, Prompto was extracting a water-enhancing syrup in the flavor “Berry Blast”, which boasted an impressive amount of sodium and potassium per serving. He popped the cap and squeezed about four of those servings into the water, shaking the cup and turning the liquid an inviting shade of blue.

Like a man dying of thirst, he gulped down a quarter of the drink as fast as he could. The effect was instantaneous: the aching in his brain receded somewhat and he felt alert for the first time in days. He wrapped his lips around the straw and took his time with the rest, thinking back on his brief encounter with Derrick.

Of all the reactions he could have had, Prompto hadn’t expected him to look so utterly _horrified_ by his physical appearance. He tried not to dwell on how ugly that made him feel, but despite his best efforts his self-esteem felt like it had been pummeled. He knew Derrick had tried to cover up his natural reaction by playing it off like he was concerned, but Prompto knew better.

 _No one’s actually concerned for you at this weight. You’re just a source of failures people mock, don’t forget that._ He imagined Derrick laughing with Vyv at how pitiful he’d looked and ducked his head to hide his glistening eyes from passing strangers. _I should avoid them for a while. At least until this heals. Damnit, why didn’t I just wait for his shift to be over?_

Prompto gave himself a moment to compose himself before lifting his head to finish off his drink. As he stood, he was relieved to find he didn’t feel dizzy, and the black spots that usually crowded his vision were nowhere to be found. _At least I feel okay . . . amazing what a little sodium can do._

He tossed the empty plastic cup into the trash and made for the bus stop, deciding to take a little detour to take a couple of photos around Insomnia. Despite the negative points to this day, he felt _good_. He felt like himself again, both physically and mentally. Now there was literally _nothing_ in the way of him and this fast, no medical concerns stopping him from inching closer and closer to perfection.

Prompto rubbed at his nose and grinned. _This is really happening._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't you just want to scream at prompto and tell him how pretty he is? also, sorry, I really don't mean to keep putting this random OC in this story but he provides such a great contrast to prompto's thinking. I can't help it. I love highlighting disordered thoughts because I'm evil.
> 
> OK SO EDIT:: THE INCREDIBLY TALENTED @SHADOWNIGHTES HAS DONE FANART OF THE LITTLE GROCERY SCENE AND I WANT TO FUCKING CRY ITS SO GOOD AND OMG. im on team protect derrick forever now please fight me AND ALSO REMIND THIS ARTIST HOW WONDERFUL SHE IS FOR ME  
> [a lovesick goon](http://shadownightes.tumblr.com/post/164609816802/this-is-derrick-and-we-share-our-love-for-chubby)


	6. An Unexpected Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto's resolve is challenged when he faces a dinner he can't get out of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another long one! I wish I'd spent a little more time fleshing out every aspect of this chapter, but I was too excited and eager to put it out. hope it's still okay!

By the seventh day, Prompto’s life had settled into somewhat of a routine.

Wake up. Attempt to brush the buildup of white gunk off his tongue (unsuccessfully). Prepare breakfast: a tall glass of water with electrolyte syrup and a sprinkle of Lite Salt (high in sodium _and_ potassium!). Go on a 45 minute walk, as running would probably result in fainting. Drink water. Engage in whatever interest caught his fancy, whether it was photography, video games, community service, or watching chocobo documentaries. Drink water. Work out (pilates, so he could do it at home) in an attempt to build muscle, or, at the very least, tone. Drink water. Shower. Have diet soda for dinner, as a treat. Drink water, with electrolytes. Watch movies and fall asleep. Repeat.

On this day, however, his very nice and very simple and very non-stressful cycle would be _utterly destroyed_ because, for the first time in literal _months_ , Prompto’s mom would be paying him a visit. She had flown back from Accordo to attend a business conference in Insomnia during the day, and would be leaving the following morning. Thus, she figured she’d stop by to see her adopted son overnight.

And she wanted to cook. Food. He didn’t know how to let her down over the phone, and was instead suffering a day-long, slow-burn panic attack about the whole ordeal.

Prompto had just gotten back from his morning walk, which had been especially punishing in the summer heat. His brainstorming about how to get out of dinner had gotten him nowhere, and, feeling defeated, he checked his phone.

For some inexplicable reason, Derrick had been texting him throughout the week. Prompto had been doing his best to disengage from every conversation, as still felt the raw sting of embarrassment from that _look_ Derrick had given him at the store.

 

 _Derrick [TUES, 4:24 PM]: Prompto! The guys wanna get together and start a new tabletop Kings Knight campaign tonight! You in?_  
_Prompto [TUES, 5:41 PM]: ahh, sorry. this cold is really kicking my ass, I should stay in :(_  
_Derrick [TUES, 5:43 PM]: No problem! Get well soon <3_

 

 _Derrick [WED, 6:09 PM]: Wyd? Vyv, Leo, and I are gonna grab curry, wanna come?_  
_Prompto [WED, 9:32 PM]: oh fuck! sorry dude, I didn’t see this till now, I was in a movie!!_  
_Derrick [WED, 9:36 PM]: Nah it’s okay it was p spontaneous anyway :)_

 

 _Derrick [THURS, 2:01 PM]: Sooo. The campaign continues tomorrow night and it’s not too late to join~_  
_Prompto [THURS, 4:12 PM]: omg, I totally would but my mom is making this special dinner thing so I’m stuck :(( so sorry dude_  
_Derrick [THURS, 4:19 PM]: Hey no worries! Enjoy it!!_

 

 _That_ one was actually true. Prompto tried to beat down a rising swell of panic at the reminder by acknowledging the new message waiting for him.

_Derrick [FRI, 11:53 AM]: Vyv wants to know if you’d be interested in coming on as a photographer for his zine? He’s having a meeting tomorrow tonight at Stories. Wouldn’t be paid work, but at least you could call yourself published, in a sense. :)_

Prompto hesitated before sending a rejection this time. On the one hand, he really, _really_ wanted to take his photography interest to a level above hobbyist. On the other, he was fat and ugly and didn’t want to look Derrick in the eye ever again.

He strode over to his full-length mirror and studied his reflection. His bruises were still there, but had faded to a less alarming green/yellow shade. And, if Derrick bought his falling story, Vyv probably would too. Besides, Derrick had assuredly filled Vyv in by now, and they probably had all the laughs they were going to at his expense anyway. He briefly toyed with the idea of using concealer before realizing Derrick would probably see right through it, as bruises don’t completely disappear in three days. Shuddering at the thought of the jokes that would crop up about _that_ realization, he quickly shut the idea down.

Prompto continued to weigh the pros and cons and eventually figured this was his best shot at doing something towards his desired career, and he’d be a special kind of idiot to not take it. Besides, it was at Stories again, so he wouldn’t have to worry about social eating. The opportunity was being handed to him on a silver platter and he was considering letting some _bruises_ get in the way.

_Prompto [FRI, 12:06 PM]: that sounds really great! what time?_

There, he did it. He’d have his mom today and peers tomorrow and what was he doing, he’s way in over his head seeing anyone, holy fuck, and what if – _ping!_

_Derrick [FRI, 12:06 PM]: Yay! 7:30. See ya there :)_

Prompto threw himself onto the bed, instantly filled with regret. Damnit. Why didn’t he just give up on all his dreams? Fuck taking the initiative . . . he’d rather just waste away . . . and . . . never talk to anyone again . . . and . . .

 

* * *

 

The harsh sound of the front door slamming shut abruptly woke Prompto from his impromptu nap. Blinking away at the dryness that came from sleeping in contacts, he scrambled up and attempted to look halfway decent.

“Prompto! Are you home?” he heard his mom call.

_How did I fall asleep? Since when am I this tired?_

“Y-yeah! Sorry! There in a jiffy!”

He barreled toward the door and out into the living room, greeting his foster mother with an enthusiastic hug and wide smile. Prompto had genuinely missed her – had missed any presence in his lonely apartment, really – and no amount of reservations about dinner could overcome that.

“It’s been so long! How are you? How was your flight? How was the conference? Is the company doing okay? When does –”

“Prompto,” his mother interrupted, laughing, “Let me put my bags down first.”

At that, he smiled sheepishly and helped her settle in, offering to bring the groceries into the kitchen and using the opportunity to peek inside the bag. Frozen dumplings, instant rice, and a store-made orange cake. Well. So much for “cooking”. Prompto felt better about wasting food that wasn’t homemade, though.

He fixed two cups of tea and brought them to the couch where his mom was sitting, already absorbed in a business call. She looked like the poster child of the word _sharp_ : her long brunette hair tied back into a ponytail, her makeup sensible yet flattering, her business suit immaculately tailored. She seemed to have something more important to do than deal with Prompto, so he waited. And waited. And waited. By the time she said goodbye, he’d nearly finished his tea and his eyes had glazed over from staring out the window.

“Sorry about that,” she smiled, picking up her now-lukewarm beverage. “I’m doing fine. The flight was okay; only a few hours. The conference went well. We’re expecting an upward trend in growth and, hopefully, an economic profit this fiscal year. We’ve broke even too many times in a row.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s good, I guess,” Prompto replied. “So. Uh. How’s Accordo? And Dad?”

“Your father is doing well; he’s a great ambassador, you know that. Busy, though. Accordo is pleasant as usual. We do miss you, you know. It’s a shame we can’t be in Insomnia with you as often as we like. Have you been thinking about Altissia as an option for college, like I told you? You could get a few scholarships as an international student, and we’d get a couple tax breaks as well, and the company could certainly benefit . . .”

Prompto had, in fact, imagined living in Altissia quite a few times, enamored by the romantic and aged quality of the city he’d only seen in photographs.

In these daydreams, he was always skinny. He dressed in warm colors; his favorite outfit to imagine consisted of dark olive jeans, a half-turtleneck with blocky horizontal stripes of white, claret, and umber, and a mustard yellow jacket. Not that he particularly hated the black that most Lucian fashion was drawn towards – he just liked the idea of being colorful rather than drab. Like an artist.

And an artist he would be. He’d take an abundance of photos around Altissia, capturing the essence of the city with a soft and careful eye. For a living, he’d shoot the dozens of proposals between tourists that occurred on a weekly basis, carefully hiding in bushes or on rooftops or even _in_ canals – anything to get that perfect shot. For himself, he’d shoot the quirks of the city: cats sleeping on white marble railing in the setting sun, the best gelato flavor at every shop, the collection of coins at the bottom of Listro Park’s fountain, and so on.

He would buy himself fresh flowers to bring to his little studio apartment, tucked into a cozy corner of the city. Every morning the sun would greet him by shining right onto his bed by the window, rousing him in the warmest way possible. He’d have a light orange and white kitten named Cece, who would lick at his face until he got up to feed her.

He isn’t sure about a significant other. Even in his skinny-dreams he was still shy and self-conscious; besides, he couldn’t even decide on a _gender_ let alone other qualities he might be looking for. But he figured that at some point he’d have one, and they would make him more comfortable than anything else could.

They’d drink caramel macchiatos at their local coffee shop, nestled together on a worn couch. They’d take gondola rides together and eat at Maagho if they were trying to be fancy. They’d bet at the arena together, feeling every twist and turn of the battles with anxious excitement. Best of all – they’d find secluded spots at night and kiss as the lights danced on the water like a real-life painting. Prompto had a _lot_ of trouble imagining that particular part – he was so reserved – yet he felt like it would happen to a thin version of himself. And it’d be beautiful.

“ – anyway, enough about my work. How have you been? Busy, I hope?”

Prompto snapped back into reality. Right. Insomnia. Cloudy weather. Loneliness. Being fat and depressed and starving. “I’ve been good. I saw a couple friends this summer, and I’m working on my photography more! I got this opportunity, actually, to –”

“Prompto,” she interrupted, again. “I really think you should focus on business. Or even law, you’re interested in that, aren't you? You’d be a great lawyer. Or medical school. You like biology, right? Anyway - something with stability, with a steady income. I just don’t think the arts are for you, sweetheart.”

He offered her a thin-lipped smile, wanting to avoid the conversation they seemed to have every time they interacted. “Didn’t you want to make dinner, mom? It’s getting late.”

“Right!” she responded, instantly perking up. “It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Let me get changed, first.”

While she was doing that, Prompto’s mind went into overdrive thinking of a way to avoid _eating_ the food. If only he hadn’t fallen asleep; he might have had a real plan by now. By the grace of the Six, though, inspiration struck as soon as he heard the handle of her door turn.

“Hey, mom,” he called as she strode into the kitchen. “Could we watch a movie while we eat? I’ve wanted to show you this one for ages, and I think you’ll like it a lot!”

“Sure,” she called back. “Set it up.”

So he did, choosing a dramatic flick about successful stock brokers working the market and doing whatever else went on in the lives of the rich and fancy. He knew it would affirm the idea that only business people made money, but Prompto _needed_ her to be fully distracted by the film. He then passed time playing on his phone until his mother emerged from the kitchen, two plates in hand.

“I’ll grab napkins and water and stuff,” he volunteered, instantly jumping up.

Soon they were settled, sitting on the couch and facing the wall-mounted TV. Prompto dimmed the lights and sat a few feet away and to the right of his mom. The opening credits rolled, and she stretched her legs onto the couch and settled onto her side, eyes glued to the screen as she ate.

Prompto sat normally, plate in his lap and two layers of napkin directly next to his right thigh, where she couldn’t see. He played with his food for a while, cutting the dumplings into small pieces and smashing the rice into compact shapes.

Nervous and slightly shaky, he then pantomimed the act of eating, bringing an empty fork to his lips and pretending to chew. He knew that, in her periphery, he appeared to be eating as normal, but the thought of being caught with no reasonable explanation was nearly overwhelming.

Scariest of all – in moments where she seemed completely absorbed, he'd quickly scoop some food off his plate and onto the hidden napkin by his thigh, eyes immediately darting to his side to make sure she hadn’t noticed.

He kept up this nerve-wracking charade for an excruciating half-hour, until he was almost to the point of sweating and nearly all his food had disappeared. By this point, his mother had finished her own dinner and her empty plate sat on the coffee table in front of her. The film held the entirety of her attention, and Prompto figured it was now or never.

With deft, subtle movements, he wrapped up the napkin of food tightly, and then crammed the makeshift package in between the couch cushions.

 _Gross, but necessary,_ he reflected briefly, peeking at his mom through his own peripheral. She was oblivious, and for that Prompto sighed inwardly, relieved. _It’s done._

He made a show of putting his empty plate aside and settling in for the rest of the film, inexorably pleased that he’d pulled off his stunt. It hadn’t been easy, facing food head-on like that. After seven days of fasting his nose seemed sharped to the scent of it, and every nerve ending in his body was crying out for sustenance. He did it, though. For the first time in his life, he’d completely resisted the naked temptation of warm, greasy calories.

Prompto half-watched the rest of the movie, mind focused on his victory and what it meant. Could he dare start calling himself an anorexic? They _were_ the unspoken top of the eating disorder food chain, being people who completely conquered temptation, and only _very rarely_ binged.

Logically, he knew he’d have to be underweight to be classified as technically anorexic. Those with anorexic tendencies while being normal or over-weight were simply called “atypical anorexics”, which was still a far more rewarding title than “EDNOS patient” (his current self-diagnosis).

And suddenly, while watching a shitty movie with a bundle of food hiding in his couch, Prompto knew what he wanted. He wanted to be anorexic, formally. He wanted to be _just_ within the bounds of underweight, to have his struggles be validated. Blue light from the TV danced on his smiling face as he made up his mind, intent on his mission.

The rest of the film passed as if in a dream, and if Prompto hadn’t already seen it he’d have no idea of what happened. His mind had been someplace else, someplace where all his skinny dreams were stored and his life was happy and rewarding.

“That _was_ good! You were right, I’m glad we did that,” his mom commented as the credits played. “I need to stay up finishing some paperwork. Did you want cake? I got orange, your favorite.”

In response, Prompto made a show of yawning and stretching his limbs. “I’m too tired right now, but I’ll have some tomorrow. Thanks for dinner, mom. It was great,” he lied smoothly, kissing her cheek. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, Prompto,” she answered, already distracted by her phone and the barrage of texts she’d received during the movie.

Sleeping was especially difficult that night, as Prompto’s stomach seemed to have been reminded that it was, in fact, empty. He eventually managed to drift off, and by the time he woke his mother had disappeared without so much as a note.

For Prompto, however, this was par for the course. He quickly threw away the leftover food – including the secret couch stash – in the dumpster outside his building. Out of sight, out of mind. He trudged back to his place and into his bathroom, ready to start a new day.

_She didn't even ask about my bruises._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else just walk around Altissia and imagine the daily lives of people who live there? it's such a dreamy place


	7. METEOR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto attends a meeting for Vyv's publication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say a big, resounding THANK YOU to everyone who is reading this fic because I??? literally never saw this coming. I sought out to make self-indulgent trash and expected to get only one comment that said "hmm 4/10" or something. you guys make me cry, I appreciate the love so much. <3  
> ALSO. this assassin's creed festival has breathed new life into me. i am Reborn.

It’s 7:32 PM, and Prompto has just walked five miles straight.

A chill breeze wraps around his body as he doubles over, hand scrambling at the rough brick wall of his destination: a homey, démodé tea shop called Stories. He frantically tries to catch his breath, which is coming out in ragged, sporadic bouts. His free hand wanders to the junction of his neck, feeling at slick skin for a pulse that’s pounding at a worrying speed. Eyes flutter as he struggles against the possibility of black spots overwhelming his vision and his stomach emptying its dismal contents.

_I shouldn’t have pushed it that much._

It takes a complete seven minutes for Prompto to fully compose himself, which may or may not have involved the embarrassing act of ducking into the side alley to put his head between his knees. Thankfully, the darkness of night provides ample cover, and no passersby witness his shame as he huddles into the shadows.

After the nausea finally dissipates and the sweat dries on his skin, he gradually rises, hands steady against the solid weight of the building.

 _Good job Prompto, a walk kicked your ass,_ he laughs to himself, bitter. _You’re off to an amazing start tonight. Athlete of the year award right here._

Whipping out his phone and activating the front camera, he quickly makes sure his face doesn’t betray how much distress he’s in. After fixing his hair, he pockets the device and makes his way into the shop, late once again.

 

* * *

 

  
Derrick spots him before anyone else does. That was to be expected, however, seeing as his gaze had been fixed on the entrance ever since the 7:30 mark passed.

And he can’t help but gasp.

As Prompto strides into the shop and pauses in the entryway, Derrick is acutely aware that he’s never seen him look as beautiful as he does in this moment. His skin is dewy, causing the soft lamps to highlight his best features ( _like a supermodel, fuck_ ) and illuminate his eyes ethereally. His lips are slightly parted, glistening. His hair is down, as it always is, but there is a hint of volume to it now – as if someone ran their fingers through the pale goldenrod strands. He looks absolutely _sultry_ , as if he’s been ravished.

The thought sends Derrick’s mind to places he _really_ doesn’t need it to be in at present, so he shakes his head and tries to calm himself.

Prompto makes eye contact, waves, and heads to the counter to buy tea. Derrick turns his attention back to the table, where all the members of Vyv’s guerilla publication METEOR are gathered, chatting idly until the meeting begins.

First, there’s Vyv himself, the founder of the zine and Derrick’s best friend. He’s a year older than him, and would be heading to college to study journalism in the upcoming school year. His hair is pulled into its characteristic ponytail, the stubble all along his neck is neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing an eggshell colored graphic t-shirt. Derrick supposes he could handsome with the right haircut and fashion, but Vyv has more things to worry about than appearances, it seems.

Back in his junior year of high school, Vyv created METEOR after becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the lackluster quality of mainstream media outlets. He didn’t approve of the hyper-focus on the royal family – especially on the prince, who clearly seemed annoyed by the constant paparazzi and the rampant sensationalism of his every action anyway.

No, Vyv sought something different. He wanted real-life stories from the perspective of modern youth culture, not media distraction tactics. In Insomnia, for every protest that went unreported, a televised speech from the king took its place. For every political issue going ignored, an article on a Crownsguard’s work-out routine was published. In columns where helpful, progressive advice could potentially be given, there only existed speculation as to who the prince might have a crush on. Mass media was a spectacle, and Vyv didn’t buy into the vapidity of it.

As it turns out, there were hundreds of people all over Insomnia of the same mindset. When Vyv first started publishing METEOR (aka: leaving copies of his pocket-sized zine around coffee shops), the positive feedback was overwhelming enough that the enterprise soon grew into Insomnia’s number one civilian production. When he expanded to digital publishing, the bi-weekly publication swiftly became an international favorite in the alternative world.

Now, he has a tight-knit team he can afford to pay a small stipend to through occasional sponsorships, the odd t-shirt sale, and online ad revenue. Vyv can potentially write for everything, but now he has the luxury to stick to reporting straight news with a non-conformist slant. Derrick couldn’t be prouder of him, and extremely grateful that he’s willing to take on his crush as an intern.

Sitting next to Vyv is Sofia, a punk-type girl who waxes poetic on counter-culture, encouraging young readers to stay aware and respectful to the constant flux of human development. Though she loves the group and her work, she’s made it her personal goal to correct Vyv’s “nice guy” self-victimization tendencies, which occasionally sparks heated debates between the pair.

Then comes Avus, a tall guy with strikingly androgynous features and combed-over red hair. He acts as METEOR’s main photographer, and takes great shots when he can… which is not very often. Being in college with a full-time job, this comes as no surprise, but still – Vyv hates when the zine looks sparse and text-heavy. Thus, he had been visibly relieved at the chance for free photos from Prompto.

Next is Petra, a friendly girl who does her best to report happenings in Insomnia in an unbiased fashion. She goes to protests, interviews oft-ignored crime victims, and gets opinions on issues from people at the source, such as a teacher’s takes on educational budget cuts rather than a politician’s. Her goal is to showcase the point of view that is rarely acknowledged, and she does a damn fine job of it.

Lucine covers the life and entertainment sections, keeping readers up-to-date on Insomnian culture. She goes to smaller art galleries and events, does food reviews, reports on local house shows, and generally finds unique things to do, keeping in spirit with METEOR’s underground roots by promoting lesser-known recreation throughout the city. She looks like the definition of an artist: intimidating yet inviting with her black turtlenecks and short bangs and kohl-lined eyes.

Derrick himself writes a political recap, and thus has to keep up with the Citadel’s activities. He boils complex language from official reports into more digestible terms, doing his best to keep readers informed on what their government is up to. He’s straightforward and unbiased, and simply seeks to be the middle-man between higher authority and the typical layperson.

Their little ragtag group accomplishes quite a lot despite being young and in school, and it makes Derrick proud to be a part of something so productive. In his wildest fantasies, he imagines METEOR growing big enough to sustain him full-time, as an adult. Sometimes, he even allows himself to picture Prompto there with him.

_What a life that would be…!_

At that moment, Prompto makes it to the table and sits down next to Derrick (to his utmost satisfaction). He’d bought a tall glass of iced tea in some sweet red flavor. It takes everything Derrick has _not_ to fixate on his lips wrapping around the straw.

“Prompto!” Vyv greets. “Welcome to METEOR.” He begins pointing out the group members, listing their names off so Prompto can get acquainted. Shy smiles and waves are exchanged, and Derrick tries not to feel protective.

“Prompto’s come on as an intern photographer, to help take the load off Avus,” Vyv explains, and Avus shoots Prompto a grateful look. “Anyway, on with the meeting. Let’s recap.”

Vyv spends an hour discussing the current state of METEOR, going over the bi-weekly income figures and discussing the amount of growth seen within viewership (happily at an all-time high). He then reviews criticism the paper has received in the past month, discussing ways to mitigate and improve on their faults until they’ve come up with a satisfying plan. Finally, he engages everyone in a conversation on their article ideas for the upcoming week, leaving Avus and Prompto out of the discussion until everything is established.

“Okay. Visuals. Avus, if you could photograph for Sofia, and Petra this week, that would be great. Lucine is doing a food review so she’ll take that photo herself. I’m writing about the murder-suicide case, so I’ll just cite images of the victims and that should be enough. Prompto, could you work with Derrick on his piece?”

Avus nods, Prompto nods, and Derrick tries not to openly swoon. _Vyv, you goddamn legend._

“Then that just about covers it! I’ve gotta run, but you guys can stay back and work a little bit if you have time,” Vyv concludes. He gathers his laptop and papers up, tosses them into his black backpack, and stands. “Bye everyone. Make me proud.”

The group smiles and waves their goodbyes, and settle into a comfortable working atmosphere. Avus discusses what kind of photo Sofia is envisioning for her article on wealth inequality. Lucine types away on her laptop, drafting the opening of her article on a tiny sandwich shop and their _delicious_ chickatrice subs. Petra scours social media for exciting events to go to and write about – the more obscure, the better.

Derrick turns to Prompto. “So, whadd’ya think so far?”

He’s a bit starry-eyed. “I’m amazed! You guys are doing so much, and everyone is really nice, and I can’t wait to get started!”

Lucine glances over the top of her laptop and flashes him a smile. “Oh my gods, what a cutie. C’mon, we’re lucky to have you.”

Prompto blushes under the attention and thanks her while Derrick stifles a flare-up of jealousy.

“I’m excited to build a real portfolio now, too,” Prompto continues. “I feel like a professional, and I haven’t even done any work yet. I just feel so honored to be here.”

Derrick’s heart melts at his pure, uncontained enthusiasm. “You’re so… wholesome, Prompto,” he says softly, before he can stop himself.

Prompto’s face reddens deeper, though, and Derrick instantly decides to compliment him more often.

“S-so. Anyway. For my article,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I was thinking…”

The pair discuss possible photo set-ups for the better part of two hours, until they’re the only ones in the group left. Derrick is utterly amazed by Prompto’s zeal for getting the _perfect_ shot, to the point where he takes out a sketchbook and begins planning components of the picture and how they should be placed. They settle on five potential drafts, agreeing to choose the best option once all the photos have been taken.

 _Avus doesn’t do half this shit,_ Derrick can’t help thinking, feeling a tad guilty. _Prompto is on another level. AND he’s funny as fuck. Damnit, I’m going to fall in love with this kid._

It’s around eleven when Prompto lets out his first yawn, opening his mouth wide. Derrick finds this utterly adorable until he notices his tongue is an unnatural shade of white. _What?_ He isn’t able to dwell on it for much longer, however, as Prompto stands up quickly after that. And immediately falls back down.

 

* * *

 

  
Prompto blinks hazily as he slowly re-enters consciousness. After a confusing half-minute, his eyes manage to focus on his surroundings, only to find sixteen pairs of eyes staring back.

“Wh…” Prompto starts, but his question gets jumbled up in his mind.

“You passed out,” Derrick supplies, and Prompto feels his breath tickle his face, notices how close he is.

Unnerved, he scoots backwards into the seat he’d been propped up in, and finally registers that every patron in the shop _and_ the store owner are looking at him with naked concern. _Shit. Just when I was starting to feel normal again. Damnit._

He can’t understand why he _deserves_ their concern, and quickly gives up trying to make sense of it. Instead, his attention shifts to trying to get them to _stop_.

“Uh. I’m fine, everyone,” he manages over the acute throbbing in his head, blinks lasting a beat too long. “That happens when I’m sick sometimes, ever since I was a kid. Doctors said it’s low blood pressure, but not anything severe enough to worry about. Sorry for scaring you guys!”

_Where are these lies even coming from?_

After an excruciating moment, the blessed sound of amicable background noise starts up as people turn back to their own conversations. Prompto releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, grateful to blend back into anonymity.

The relief doesn’t last long, however, as he immediately feels a hand descend onto his shoulder and whips his head towards the source, startled.

 _Oh_. Just the shop owner: a kind, older woman who enjoys tea, psychedelic artwork, and watching bad dramas behind the counter when not assisting customers. A woman who was, at this moment, giving Prompto an _unsettlingly_ understanding look, studying him closely.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything? I could make you a Cup Noodle and you can have any pastries you want, on the house,” she offers, voice soft. “Perhaps your blood sugar is low.”

The feeling of being mothered is foreign, and he bites his lip to keep from choking up at the raw thoughtfulness. “I, uh. N-no. I mean – yeah, I’m sure. I don’t need anything. I’ll be… fine. Thank you for offering, though.”

His voice cracks and wavers on the last word, and Prompto grapples against the blush threatening to rise to his cheeks. He feels like the definition of the word “pathetic”, being this fat mess who faints and cries over any positive attention. The owner takes no heed of his stumbling speech, however, and merely regards him with a tender smile.

“Okay, kiddo. If you change your mind, don’t be afraid to ask. For anything,” she adds, and her eyebrows raise _just_ enough for Prompto to understand. “I’m here for you.”

_Fuck. She saw right through me._

His eyes instantly flicker to Derrick, but he appears happily oblivious to the double-entendre. In fact, he looks positively relaxed, as one would be after accepting a reasonable explanation without suspicion. _Thank gods._ His secret is safe, relatively.

Evidently noticing Prompto’s need for privacy, the owner gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, turns, and goes back behind the counter without further comment. He tries to quell the rising panic at his disorder being _acknowledged_ by turning to address his companion.

“So. That was awkward,” he laughs, hoping to play the episode off.

His luck must be running high because Derrick only chuckles and answers, “Yeah dude. Time to call it a night?”

“Definitely,” Prompto agrees, grateful, and gathers his things. He stands up with extreme care, clenching his abs with what little energy he has left and hoping to keep the blood in his head this time.

Derrick rises as well, and then his brows knit and he frowns. “You didn’t bike here again, did you? I don’t think you should bike again after all… that,” he says, waving his hands for effect.

“I – ”

“Prompto.” A nervous spark flashes in Derrick’s eye, and his words practically tumble out: “I want to make sure you get back safe. Your bike should fit in my truck bed – let me take you home.”

Prompto pauses, mind whirring. He knew he wouldn’t make it home if he tried to walk, and this was his best option. “U-uh. Yeah, that’d be really cool actually,” he concedes. “Thanks, dude! I didn’t bike here though, I called for a car.”

The smile on Derrick’s face grows to extreme proportions, and he’s almost bouncing with excitement. “All the same! I’m parked outside, let’s go!”

He stares at his quickly retreating form in confusion, unsure as to how his agreeing to a ten-minute ride inspired such a visceral reaction in his friend. _Does he… actually care about me? My safety?_ The thought bounces around in his head, optimistic and hopeful. It glows so brightly that it hurts Prompto _physically_ to squash it, as he inevitably does. _Shut up. The answer is no. He’s just being courteous because you fucking fainted, you dip. No one cares about you, because you’re worthless._

Prompto sighs inwardly and follows, seemingly more at ease with the thought of being an obligation than being a treasured friend. An obligation _is_ what he’s grown used to being, after all. And there’s a certain comfort in the familiar, even if it is negative.

Before ducking out of the shop, he glances towards the counter one last time, meeting the knowing eyes of the owner and mouthing a silent _thank you_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: don't ramble about the specifics of this newspaper for 10 years  
> me anyway: does it 
> 
> ALSO! I've been playing with the idea of creating a sequel to this fic after the fast is over, in which noctis & co. are in the picture and they're Attentive and Notice Things. + there's promptis because of course there is. thoughts? raise ya hand if you'd read that shit


	8. Where's that confounded bridge?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days begin to bleed into each other as Prompto's body gets used to starvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, I shouldn't be posting this RIGHT after I _just_ posted a chapter, but I don't even care!! I'm!! too excited about where this story is headed, and it's done, so, HERE.
> 
> shorter one this time, and it's more of a bridge-piece between the events we've seen so far and the Big Scene.  
> (yes, there's a Big Scene coming up. of massive and angsty proportions.)  
> I tried playing with a different style of writing. constructive criticism is dearly welcomed. <3

On Day Nine, Prompto jolts awake from another food-related nightmare, touches his face to find tears. His stomach is too empty to allow sleep again no matter how many heavy pillows he stacks on top of it, a poor attempt to simulate fullness.

He’s no longer afraid of the scale. Not when it says lovely things to him, like _191.2_.

 

* * *

   
On Day Eleven, Prompto is at Derrick’s house, poring over his photos and struggling to pick the best ones for an article on educational reform laws. The pair sprawl out over the floor for ages until they agree on two – an establishing shot of the Citadel at dawn, and a panoramic shot of an overpopulated classroom in a low-income district. Prompto is proud of his work, feels a sense of purpose.

 _I’m gonna grab food,_ Derrick says. _Do you want anything?_

_I’m okay, I ate before I came here._

Derrick pauses, considers. _Y’know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen you eat anything like, ever._

 _That’s ‘cause I’m secretly a vampire._ And his dorky grin is overpowering.

The pair burst into giggles, and the subject is dropped.

 

* * *

   
On Day Twelve, Prompto can’t believe what he’s seeing. But it’s there all the same, in neat, sharpened pixels. _189.7._

He’s exuberant, overjoyed, enthused, amazed, cheerful, delighted, buoyant – every descriptive word there is! The 180s, and so soon!

He skips to the mirror, and for the first time he notices a difference. His face has become slightly angular around the edges, his arms look thinner, his stomach doesn’t protrude quite so much.

He fumbles for his camera, takes a body check, compares it to the photo he took on the first day. Yes, it’s becoming noticeable – the edges of his physique are sharpening into something more normal, more _humanoid_ rather than formless.

Prompto feels infinite.

 

* * *

   
On Day Fourteen, Prompto finds himself at Vyv’s place for METEOR’s production meeting. Papers are scattered, hands fly across keyboards, and Avus’s eyes are hardly blinking as they pore over his design program. He moves a photo around a block of text, ponders, and moves it back again when Vyv breathes down his neck.

Prompto is editing, reading over each article and trying to suss out mistakes or awkward language the original author might have missed. Or, at least, he’s trying to. His eyes go glassy over and over and over, making him feel completely useless. He simply can’t focus.

Derrick throws him a thumbs-up over his laptop. Prompto raises one back, and only registers his hand is shaking because Derrick frowns at it. Embarrassed, he turns back to his work.

An hour passes before Lucine sidles up to Prompto, nudging his side and shocking him out of a trance-like state. _D’you need to go home, Prompto? I can pick up your slack. You look really, really tired. Like, I’ve never seen dark circles that bad._

The insult is cushioned with a friendly laugh, but Prompto takes it personally anyway – jaw clenching to prevent tears while furiously wishing he could sleep more. The panging in his abdomen always wakes him up prematurely, though.

Before he can open his mouth to answer, Vyv loudly announces a post-production dinner at the Crow’s Nest.

_Yeah, I should go. Thanks Lucine._

He swears he can _feel_ Derrick’s eyes boring into his back when he does.

 

* * *

 

On Day Sixteen, Prompto finds himself back at Derrick’s house, new photos in hand. They work, laugh, and find themselves watching trash TV. Derrick is sitting way too close, which is a foreign experience, but he doesn’t mind all that much.

And Derrick asks him again – _Do you want something to eat?_

 _Already ate,_ Prompto replies, but the answer is starting to fray from overuse.

This time there are no jokes, no easy smiles. Just silence. Derrick looks at Prompto with an unreadable expression, and Prompto panics. He desperately changes the subject, tries to ignore the nervousness pooling in his gut.

 

* * *

 

On Day Nineteen, Prompto runs out of electrolyte syrup, the brain fog sets in again, and he finds himself desperate to replenish from CCS. He prays to Shiva that Derrick won’t be there, but, just his luck – he’s the only cashier open.

 _Why are you wearing a jacket and jeans?_ is the first thing Derrick says to him. _It’s super hot!_

Prompto feels self-conscious.

 _Ah… hah. Uh. Well. I’m not sure why, but I’ve been really cold lately._ For once, it’s the truth. _Guess I’m an alien now, too. An alien vampire. An alpire._

Derrick doesn’t even acknowledge the joke, instead looks at the items Prompto is buying closely – something he neglected to do last time. His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking.

 _Might be getting sick again,_ he mumbles, and Prompto is fiercely grateful he doesn’t push the subject and gives him an out instead. _450 gil. Cash or credit?_

 

* * *

 

On Day Twenty-one, Prompto is at Stories with the crew, simply hanging out. He feels guilty for not wanting to be there, because everyone is so kind and complimentary to him, but he can hardly sit upright. Dully, he hopes his swaying isn’t dramatic enough to be noticeable.

Derrick gets up to refill his tea and takes a bit longer than usual. Prompto glances up, sees him huddled close to the shop owner, talking discreetly. Fear shoots into his chest with all the power of an assault rifle.

 _It’s nothing. It’s nothing,_ he thinks, trying to comfort himself. _They’re probably just friends since he’s here all the time. They’re not talking about you.  
_

The comforting doesn’t work, and Prompto’s swaying gets worse as it goes unchecked. Sweat pools on his nape, streaming down in tiny rivulets. When he starts panting, and he quickly realizes he needs to leave. Now.

He sits through his panic attack in a dark alley somewhere, huddled against a cool metal dumpster.

 

* * *

 

On Day Twenty-four, Prompto weighs 185.4 pounds. For once, he doesn’t feel happy. Despite being the smallest he’s been in recent memory – only eleven pounds away from normal – he suddenly and inexplicably feels like the biggest person to ever exist.

He cries. A lot. He spends the entire day sobbing in his bed, the exertion wracking his body as he weeps. He’s loud too, loud enough that his parents would come in to comfort him if they were in the other room. Too bad they’re in another country.

The reminder makes him cry harder – it isn’t exactly _nice_ to realize that he’s completely, utterly alone in the world. And when he thinks he’s spent, he makes the mistake of looking down, and seeing the meaty body he’s tethered to.

He grows furious at it. He pinches and pinches and pinches at himself, harder than he’s ever done before. He wants to hurt. He wants to break blood vessels and see bruises and give his form the treatment he deserves. His nerves scream under his fingers but he’s cruel, relentless.

Rotund stomach. Fleshy thighs. Thick hips. Flabby arms. Plump calves. _Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuckyou fuckyou fuckyou fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou._

 

* * *

 

On Day Twenty-five, Prompto feels like absolute shit but heads to Citadel Park to take photos with Derrick anyway. His eyes are dry (cried out). His stomach is empty __and__ battered. Every misstep sends an agonizing pang of soreness through his beaten muscles.

Yet he’s there, because he promised he would be; he’s never been one to go back on his word. That doesn’t stop it from being the longest day in the history of time, however.

When they’re finally done, Prompto stretches his arms to the sky and lets out a satisfied groan, his shirt lifting up slightly. He turns to say goodbye and startles when he sees a distinctly angry expression paints Derrick’s face, but can’t figure out why.

 

* * *

 

On Day Twenty-six, everything goes to shit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I reckon there's only two installments left of this, and then it's onto the gay chocobro sequel. which i will spend a considerable amount of time on, because I want that one to be _great_.  
>  this fic is my version of training wheels, and it's amazing how much I've learned in such a short amount of time. again, I am beyond grateful to everyone who has supported it along the way. you all had a part in the development of this story, whether you know it or not. <3


	9. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derrick talks to Prompto candidly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even CARE that I'm uploading at rapid-fire anymore, or that it's 1 am. this story is literally itching to get out. enjoy. happy labor day <3

On Day Twenty-six, Prompto is over at Derrick’s house again. They’d just wrapped up METEOR business and are now settled in on the living room couch, watching an old sitcom that Prompto adores. Thankfully, they don’t have to worry about disturbing Derrick’s parents – they both worked at this time.

For the most part, Prompto is enjoying himself. He’s never had a _real_ friend before, so the simple act of watching TV with one is incredibly new. He feels delighted when he thinks about Derrick, about everyone on METEOR, really. They seem to _genuinely_ enjoy his presence, they laugh at his jokes, they even call him cute.

_Cute. Cute cute cute cute. That’s me. Cute._

He doesn’t quite believe them, but the words are nice all the same. A smile creeps up on his face so he buries it in his knees, which he’s been hugging against his chest. He feels _happy_. Sure, on his own he’s miserable and starving, but when he’s around people… he almost forgets what he’s going through. He just _lives_ , and it feels like an immeasurable kindness to have a few hours away from his own head.

The episode ends, and the next one automatically queues up to auto-play. Out of nowhere, Derrick lowers the volume on the TV until it becomes more of a muted hum in the background.

“What’s up?” Prompto asks, turning his head towards him.

Derrick looks nervous, for some reason. “I, uh… Could I talk to you about something? It’s kind of… personal.”

Prompto figures he needs advice about embarrassing guy problems or something like that. He’s not really sure what else could be personal to Derrick; as far as he knows, he has no major mental issues and lives a pretty well-adjusted life.

“Sure. What’d you wanna talk about?” Prompto responds, offering what he hopes is a kind and understanding smile. He’s never comforted someone before, but he supposes this isn’t a bad place to start.

Derrick runs a hand through his hair, a short pull of anxiety. “It’s um. Kinda heavy stuff. C’mere.”

Prompto knits his eyebrows but scoots over anyway, until he’s right next to him. After a beat, Derrick reaches out and twines their hands together. Prompto starts, but quickly reasons that this is probably what friends do when they console each other. This is normal. Right?

“This is kind of hard to say,” Derrick begins. “But I _need_ to say it.” He starts rubbing his thumbs on Prompto’s hands in small, delicate circles.

Prompto’s not sure if he should encourage him to continue or wait until he’s ready on his own. Before he’s finished debating with himself, Derrick speaks anyway.

“I, uh. I’ve been really worried about you, Prompto.”

He freezes. _This isn’t about Derrick._

Suddenly, the world feels like it’s been turned upside down and time is moving a sick parody of itself. Shadows become menacing, his heart starts pounding sickeningly, colors begin to bleed into each other. His worst fears are springing to life – gently, with his hands being held – and all he can do is watch.

“W-Why would y-you be?” Prompto stammers, trying and failing at nonchalance. His head is spinning too much; he can’t believe this conversation is unfolding.

Derrick searches his eyes, his stare boring into Prompto like a brand. He scoffs. “Why would I be? That’s… obvious, I think.”

He goes silent for a bit, and Prompto decides it’s the most excruciating moment of his young life. When Derrick speaks again, his eyes are pinched and steely, and his hands tense around Prompto's.

“You’re shaky almost all the time,” he accuses, suddenly heated, words tumbling out rapidly. “You always look tired, like, _way_ too tired. You sway and almost lose your balance a lot. Like, dude, you can hardly sit up straight anymore. Your tongue is _white_ , which is kind of freaky. You cover up way too much considering it’s _summer_. Even now, your hands are cold as ice. And you fainted the other day, for fuck’s sake!”

Prompto just looks at him, feeling like time is moving both incredibly fast and horrendously slow.

“I – ”

“Mary, the owner at Stories,” Derrick cuts in, frenzied. “She told me I should keep my eye on you, make sure you’re safe. Tell me Prompto – _Why would she say that?”_

Prompto feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to be here. He really, really doesn’t want to be here. He decides to stop being here.

But when he tries to stand, to get away, Derrick’s hands slip to his wrists and grip tightly. Before Prompto can process what’s happening, he’s being pushed down, back pressing firmly into the soft plush of the sofa. His hands are on either side of his head, pinned while Derrick looms above him menacingly, nearly straddling his hips.

His head whips to his right, wildly seeking out his leather cuff. Derrick isn’t _quite_ holding it – he’s grasping a little above it – but the thought that it could be jostled free at any second sends cold fear through Prompto’s veins.

The world switches to real-time again, spurred by the escalation. “Agh! …Get off me!” he exclaims, struggling fruitlessly against Derrick’s iron grip.

But Derrick isn’t listening. He’s transferring both wrists into one hand and holding it above Prompto’s head. And then – his free hand is diving down Prompto’s body, fingers dipping under the hem of his t-shirt.

Realization strikes through Prompto’s heart. “No! Don’t –”

Derrick shoves his shirt upward anyway, revealing a stomach completely littered with fingerprint-sized bruises. Derrick’s breath catches at the sight, Prompto’s eyes squeeze shut in humiliation. _Don’t look at me don’t look at me don’t look at me don’t look at me._

“So I did see that correctly,” Derrick is murmuring to himself, voice a cross between anger and concern.

His hand ghosts over the deep blue marks, mimicking the patterns of them with his own fingers. He accidentally presses into one and Prompto hisses at the resultant pain.

“Sorry,” he blurts. Prompto shivers, a chill running through him at the sudden cold. “Uh. You… you did this to yourself, didn’t you?”

Tears are leaking out of the sides of Prompto’s eyes and his breath is coming in short, audible gasps but he can’t help it, he feels so utterly exposed.

“S-stop. Please. I don’t want to talk about this. P-please just put it back. Please.” He’s never felt so desperate.

To his credit, Derrick drags his shirt back down and shifts to pinning his wrists against the sides of Prompto’s head with both hands again. His legs press against Prompto's sides, stilling any potential movement of hips. Useless, Prompto's legs kick out at the air, and his face feels absolutely _fiery_ with embarrassment, the visible wetness leaking out of his eyes and down to his ears not helping.

“Prompto, look at me,” Derrick commands, and for some reason he obeys, albeit slowly. “When was the last time you ate?”

 _I don’t remember._ “Breakfast.”

“Prompto,” Derrick tries again, voice softer. “Please, just be honest with me. I know what you’re doing. I… I researched your symptoms. You’ve been fasting, right?”

The deduction hits Prompto like a bullet, leaves him gasping and stunted. His eyes widen fearfully, Derrick’s narrow with understanding.

Instead of replying, he fights against his restraints, trying to build enough momentum to move Derrick even a _little_ bit – but he can’t. A small noise of frustration escapes as his energy saps quickly, and valiant shoves turn into halfhearted squirming. Idly, he wonders if he’s weak from starvation or if Derrick is just freakishly strong.

“I thought so,” Derrick continues, calm. “I’ll ask again – when was the last time you ate?”

Prompto closes his eyes and thinks, figuring everything has gone to complete shit anyway and he’ll probably be stuck there until Derrick gets what he wants. Might as well shock him with the truth.

He does some mental math, finds his answer, opens his eyes tentatively. “T… Twenty-six days ago.”

Now it’s Derrick’s turn to look struck, and Prompto revels in that fact for all but three seconds before his expression twists into something furious.

“Why, Prompto!” he yells, his grasp becoming tight enough that Prompto can feel his bones shifting.

“Ahh – stop! Fuck, you’re hurting m-”

“Don’t you even care that you’re _killing_ yourself? What about your friends? What about your family?” Derrick roars, unrelenting, digging his captured wrists deeper into the cushion.

He’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers. “P-please! Please Derrick!”

“People in your life who _care_ about you, do they mean _nothing?_ You just – gods! They don’t matter, is that it?”

“Ahhfuck, fuck, I can’t feel my – hhn – ah – _please_ \- let g-”

“You selfish prick!” Derrick indicts, and Prompto gapes at him with shocked, wide eyes. “How could you do this?”

 _“Because I hate myself!”_ Prompto screams, tears streaming freely, and Derrick finally closes his mouth. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t want to be _me!_ I’m the fattest, ugliest person I know and nobody likes me, period! I don't have _friends_ or _family!_ Gods - I just - I just fucking hate every facet of who I am and sometimes I wish I _was_ dead so – yeah! That’s how I can fucking do this! And I don’t recall asking for your goddamn _concern_ , so just _get the fuck off of me!”_

Derrick looks like he’s been slapped. There’s silence for a minute, punctuated only by both boys’ rapid breathing and nearly inaudible dialogue coming from the TV. Derrick doesn’t release him, but he _does_ gradually ease up on his grip as he slowly calms down.

“You’re at death’s door, Prompto,” he says, expression fading from ferocity to sadness. “You won’t last much longer, I can tell you that.”

Prompto averts his eyes. “That’s not true. Plenty of people fast for months,” he replies, petulant.

“Where are you getting your information from, sensationalist videos online?” Derrick responds, mild now. “People _don’t_ actually fast that long, they just lie about it. They eat at least once, I can tell you that. Or, they take a lot of specific vitamins and nutritional drinks and are monitored by specialists. You do none of that.”

“I – ”

“Prompto, the human body can only last about a month without food. I feel like if I let you go now, this might be the last time I ever see you,” he finishes, eyes glistening now.

Something cold and fearful in Prompto’s chest lurches as he processes those words. _He isn’t planning on letting me go._

It isn’t so much the promise of what Derrick’s about to do, but the absolute _helplessness_ he feels that sets off Prompto crying again. He feels overpowered in every sense and it startles him to his core. His disorder is built on control. Not eating is built on control. His _entire life_ is built on control, and Derrick is ripping that control away from him and it’s _petrifying_.

“You have two options,” Derrick continues, looking torn. “One. I call the police and tell them my friend is actively trying to commit suicide. You get slammed into inpatient and force fed by a tube – shoved up your nose and straight into your stomach.”

Prompto visibly cringes. _Police. Police mean background checks. They’ll see I’m not good enough to live in Lucis. I’ll… I’ll get sent back to – to wherever I came from. And I don't want to be fed by a tube, fuck! Inpatient costs thousands of gil and they’ll make me gain the weight back. Probably more._

“No. No. No. Please don’t call the police, please, whatever you do. Please.” He struggles again with the modicum of energy he has left, gets nowhere. Derrick’s arms are like solid rock, and it _scares_ him.

“Don’t force me to, then,” Derrick responds, clearly not enjoying how much pain he’s putting Prompto through. “Option two. You eat. Right here, right now. Everything I give you. It probably won’t help you mentally, but at least you won’t be on the brink of fuckin’ death. At least you’ll walk out that door with a strong chance of surviving into next week, and I won’t feel like an accessory to a murder by doing nothing.”

Prompto’s entire body goes cold. No. No, he can’t eat. Not yet.

 _As if I have a goddamn choice,_ he thinks bitterly. Silent tears bubble up, hot on his temples.

“What’s it gonna be?” Derrick presses.

Prompto laughs in disbelief, short and curt. “What do you think, Derrick? You’re the one threatening me – you of all people should know the option I’m forced to take.”

Derrick bites his lip, looking almost remorseful. Almost. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll uh. Get the food then, I guess. I’m glad you’re cooperating. Don’t try to run – you know I’ll catch you. If you don’t faint first, anyway,” he warns.

At long last, he releases Prompto and shifts off the couch, heading into the kitchen. Prompto immediately sits up, backs into the corner, pulls his knees to himself, and rubs at his sore wrists as he cradles them close to his chest. He wipes the sides of his face on his shoulders, angrily drying the tear streaks.

Derrick is back in a flash, carrying a large tray of assorted foods that he sets down onto the coffee table. _Fucker. He planned this._

“We’ll start light,” Derrick says, reaching for a fork and a plastic cup of cantaloupe pieces, handing it to Prompto.

Prompto takes both, but his hands are shaking _violently_ now. He can barely hold the utensil let alone use it, and after a pathetic minute of failed attempts, Derrick sighs and takes the items back. He spears a cube easily and holds it to Prompto’s lips, and, feeling like a _fucking child_ , Prompto closes his mouth around it.

And - _oh_.

It tastes _phenomenal_. After twenty-six days without food, Prompto’s taste-buds have grown hypersensitive, giving what should be a mildly sweet fruit the taste and texture of a five-star dessert from the Citadel itself. It’s so good that he literally _moans_ , and Derrick grins smugly, and he hates himself even more. Twenty seconds later, he swallows.

He just broke his fast. _He just broke his fast._

Derrick is already trying to guide another piece into his mouth, but Prompto halfheartedly swats it off. “S-Stop. Wait. I. Just need a second,” is all he can say, stilted and wobbly, before he bursts into loud, vicious sobs.

The tears wrack his entire body forcefully and he buries his face in his knees, hiccupping for breaths as he weeps and weeps and weeps. He’s dimly aware of Derrick rubbing at his nape, and he doesn’t like it, wants him to stop touching him. He’s afraid to say so, though. Afraid to defy Derrick in any way, the words _Police_ and _Inpatient_ still floating at the front of his consciousness.

An age passes before he lifts his head. “Okay,” he croaks. “Go on.”

The next half-hour is, decidedly, the worst experience Prompto has ever had. Each morsel of food breathes new life into his body, activating parts of his brain he’d forgotten about in the fog. It also makes him want to die on the spot.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His constant headache disappears.

Pasta salad. He hallucinates his legs growing four inches wider.

Chickatrice, rice, and vegetable bowl. His extremities stop feeling numb.

Garula steak. He considers choking purposefully, but realizes that’ll deliver him to the police anyway.

And so on.

He counts on the fly, brain a nonstop mix of quick addition, self-hatred, and guilty thoughts about how delicious the food is. By the end, Prompto estimates he’s consumed between 2200-2500 calories. He wonders if the excessive crying burned any, if it evened out the score a bit.

Derrick takes the now-empty tray back to the kitchen while Prompto sips at the cardboard carton of a protein shake, his hands now steady enough that he can hold it. It’s only when he sees fingers snapping in front of his eyes that he realizes he’d been staring into space, unfeeling.

Derrick is sitting next to him, facing him. “How… how do you feel?”

Prompto’s eyes unfocus again, fixating on a spot on the floor. “My stomach is full. It hurts.”

“And…?”

“And I want to kill myself,” Prompto continues, matter-of-fact. Derrick’s eyes widen, so he adds quickly: “But I won’t. I won’t. I just feel awful, is what I’m saying. Don’t call the police. Please.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry,” Derrick responds, nearly a mumble. “I wish I didn’t have to do that to you. But. You might’ve died, Prompto, and-”

“I get it,” Prompto cuts in, exhausted. “I don’t want to hear it again. I understand.”

Derrick goes silent, fiddles with the material of his jeans. “For what it’s worth, everything you said about yourself – I think it’s totally untrue! You were hardly fat even before you lost all that weight. Everyone at METEOR loves you, especially Lucine and Petra! They all think you’re cool and wish they saw you more. Besides that, you’re incredibly talented, Prompto. No offense to Avus, but you’ve done a way better job _and_ you’re way younger than him.”

Prompto keeps sipping at his shake, staring at the floor.

“And you’re hardly ugly,” Derrick picks up, voice faltering nervously. “Not by a long shot. In fact. I’ve uh… kinda had a major crush on you for years now.”

At that, Prompto finally turns his head to face him.

“I get lies and exaggerations to protect my feelings, but I’d rather you not pretend to _like_ me because you feel bad about what you did,” he says, emotionless. “I don’t need your pity. I just feel like I’m being mocked now.”

Derrick’s mouth drops and his face reddens but Prompto doesn’t care, because he’s finished off his drink. He turns it upside down, showing off its emptiness.

“There, I finished everything. Bye.”

He hears Derrick starting to say something, but he’s already out the door.

 

* * *

  
Twenty minutes later, Prompto is in the handicap stall of a gas station bathroom, toilet seat up and fingers in his mouth.

He would have waited till he got home, but the amount of time the bus would have taken made him anxious. He might’ve digested everything by then.

So, he dove into the nearest establishment and was now employing every tip he’d learned online. _Stand up – don’t kneel. Standing makes it easier. Lean backwards a bit, to start. Take two fingers and don’t just stick them back. Massage your throat a little bit. Don’t take them out until you feel something coming up for sure. When you do, lean forward. The momentum will help._

Except he’s stuck on the massaging part, and has been for the last five minutes.

_C’mon. C’mon._

A small part of his mind knew this was an exercise in futility – knew that every time he’s tried this in the past it never worked. The Astrals cursed (or blessed?) him with absolutely no gag reflex. He doesn’t remember throwing up once in his entire _life_ , but it doesn’t stop him from trying again and again and again.

_Lean backwards. Massage. Add another finger? Keep massaging._

Ten minutes pass. Nothing.

He tries to shove his hand in deeper, but that only cuts off his airway. He chokes, removes his fingers rapidly, and the subsequent coughs rattle him for a solid minute.

“Everything okay in there?” someone is saying, and it takes a beat for Prompto to realize they’re talking to him.

“Yeah,” he wheezes, voice scratchy. “Just a little sick! Sorry.”

He doesn’t want to keep trying. He'll just have to accept that all those calories would enter his system and fatten him even more. He feels wearier, in that moment, than he’s ever felt before.

Instead, he slumps against the dirty bathroom floor, and lets silent tears escape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY EVERYONE. I know derrick is the fan favorite but I've been thinking about turning him into a (very) humanized villain since he was born from my evil, evil mind. he's... misguided, to say the least. such is the nature of love.
> 
> there will be an epilogue after this, and then it's on to the sequel!
> 
> P.S. I share _real_ eating disorder tips in this fic a lot, because if there's one thing I hate it's unrealistic ED media (aka: the only kind of ED media). I just want to remind everyone that if you feel the need to emulate any of the things Prompto is attempting, I encourage you to seek help immediately. His life isn't ideal by a long shot. My tumblr message box is always open (same username).


	10. Epilogue / New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto begins a new chapter in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd wished for this to be longer, but this chapter wanted to stay firmly as it was. hopefully it's still alright. <3

It felt only appropriate to Prompto that the worst day of his life would be paired with his worst _night_.

He got sick. Very, very sick.

Prompto had expected this, considering he’d been force-fed over _2000 calories_ worth of food after not having eaten anything for twenty-six days. But when he didn’t immediately throw up, or his stomach didn’t seize, he thought he might’ve gotten off lucky.

He hadn’t.

It was only after hour two of sobbing in his bed that Prompto’s stomach cramped up, unexpected and painful, like he’d been stabbed with sharp lances that _twisted_. His face morphed into a caricature of itself and he lay there paralyzed, unable to even _scream_ because the pain had reached such high thresholds. A few hours after that, him and his toilet got reacquainted, and Prompto was in raw, white-hot agony.

Throughout the night, _pings_ from his phone sounded occasionally but he’d ignored them, too wrapped up in the torture his body was putting him through. Only when the pain has finally receded (sometime in the AM), and Prompto had showered the sweat and tears off his skin, does he swipe one shaky finger across the screen and acknowledge the messages there. He tries to ignore the bruising on his wrists, the scrapes on his right knuckles where they'd hit his teeth in the gas station.

_Derrick [4:43 PM]: I hope you made it home okay. I’m sorry  
_

_Derrick [6:02 PM]: If you hate me I understand. Just please let me know if you’re okay.  
_

_Derrick [9:22 PM]: I’m getting really worried Prompto.  
_

_Derrick [12:09 AM]: I get why you’d be ignoring me but please just… let me know if you are? I need to know you aren’t in a ditch somewhere  
_

_Derrick [1:31 AM]: I’m about ready to drive over, Prompto_

That last one had been sent eight minutes ago. Panicked, Prompto’s fingers scramble across the touchscreen, desperately hoping he hadn’t already left.

_Prompto [1:39 AM]: I’m fine, please leave me alone_

He didn’t have time to put down his phone before Derrick responded:

_Derrick [1:39 AM]: Okay._

Trembling, battered, and sore, Prompto collapses into bed and instantly falls asleep.

 

* * *

  
The next morning, Prompto prepared a mug of tea and sat on his couch, taking stock of his life just like he’d done on the first day:

School started in nineteen days.

He didn’t know how much he weighed. Didn’t want to know.

Last time he checked, he had eleven pounds until his BMI was even close to “normal”.

In nineteen days, if he kept fasting, he would be able to lose _just_ enough to not feel like a monster - based on his TDEE.

He didn’t know how much yesterday’s incident would throw him off track.

He’d just have to keep fasting.

 

* * *

  
_Prompto [9:34 AM]: hi Vyv. sorry, but I can’t keep interning for METEOR. life got… hectic. I hope you understand, and you can still use my last set of pictures.  
_

_Vyv [9:51 AM]: No worries. Hope everything gets better soon, we’d love to have you back in the future._

 

* * *

  
Days started melting together again. Prompto had been worried that he’d be thrown off his streak and wouldn’t be able to start over, but fasting comes back to him easily. It's familiar and comforting, like a warm embrace.

_Derrick [TUES, 8:09 PM]: I just want to say I’m sorry, again. You didn’t have to quit… I know how much it meant to you to be on the paper. I’m sorry. I fucked it all up._

Prompto doesn't do much, anymore.

He listens to music. He watches movies. He plays video games. He drinks water. He oversleeps. He cries – a lot.

His limbs feel too heavy to do much else.

_Derrick [THURS, 4:56 PM]: I feel really bad about what happened… I’m such a piece of shit. I shouldn’t have done that. I just. I didn’t know what to do, and I got scared, and… fuck. I’m sorry._

He takes to staring at the wall across from his bed. It's a rather fun activity.

He lets his eyes unfocus and see how long they can go without blinking, keeps trying to beat his high score. It's almost like a game, in a way.

Hours pass.

_Derrick [SUN, 11:30 AM]: I miss you, Prompto. I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. I hope everything’s okay on your end. Everyone at METEOR says hi._

Sometimes he sleeps entire days away, and wakes up to darkness.

He didn't know he could sleep that much. He didn’t know he was that tired.

He doesn't mind.

_Derrick [TUES, 1:11 PM]: I meant everything I said. I just want you to know that._

Occasionally he feels hands in his dreams, holding him down, touching his torso, pushing food into his throat. He tries to scream but his mouth is always too full.

He’d wake up disoriented and sweaty, would always start crying. It's the only times he really _feels_ anything. He hates it.

 

* * *

  
Fourteen days elapse as if in a dream. Prompto hardly acknowledges the passage of time, barely registers the negative effects of fasting. Then again – he doesn't really leave his apartment. He puts no strain on himself, opting to just... exist for a while.

What interrupts his depressed haze, ultimately, is the arrival of a packet in the mail. A schedule of his classes for the upcoming year, and a new school uniform (one size smaller, like he’d requested).

For the first time in weeks, he checks social media. His fingers quickly land on Derrick’s profile, where, sure enough, he’d posted a picture of his schedule. With nervous, trembling fingers, Prompto compares it to his. None of their classes match.

_Thank gods._

The reminder that school is starting seems to kickstart Prompto out of his lull. He breathes fresh air and goes for a walk in the sun, attempting to get into the right mindset for the following Monday. After all, he’d be introducing himself to the prince. Theoretically.

 

* * *

  
_Prompto [SUN, 7:11 PM]: Hi Derrick. I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Sorry… Good luck this year._

 

* * *

  
On the morning of his first day of school, Prompto strips to his underwear and stands before the blue-glass scale that has dictated his life for years.

For the first time in nearly three weeks, he steps on.

_174.1_

_BMI 26.5. Just one point from normal._

 

* * *

  
When he introduces himself to Prince Noctis an hour later, the boy regards him with a quizzical look before asking if they’d already met. Prompto rubs at his nape and laughs, and the two fall into step, instant friends.

He breaks his fast on half of Noct’s granola bar later that day. Incredibly, Prompto’s life doesn’t feel like it’s ending.

It feels like it’s just begun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand that's a wrap on my first fic _ever_. wow.  
>  I can't thank everyone enough - every person who commented such kind, wonderful words of encouragement, every person who left kudos, every person who opened this fic at all. you all gave me a reception to the world of writing that I would never have _dreamed_ of. like: extremely detailed comments, thoughtful and inspiring discussions, _fanart??_ I am not worthy of this love, and I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.  <3 it pushed me to keep going, to get _better_. just comparing the first chapter to the ending chapters, I think the growth is obvious. and it's all thanks to every one of you. 
> 
> and I want to keep getting better. the sequel is on its way, as promised, but... I want to put out _long ass chapters_ , research how to craft great stories, and really make sure I nail every characterization. for all the derrick fans! don't worry, he's not completely written out of the picture. he'll still be present... albeit much less.  
> thus! gay fluff + eating disorder angst is on the way, it'll just take a little longer than usual. it'll be added as a part 2 in this series, so you can subscribe to the series as a whole to get notified for that!
> 
> in the meantime! [follow me on tumblr](https://chikelo.tumblr.com/) where i'll post updates and we can be friends and cry about prompto together.
> 
> thank you all so much, again. what can I say... you guys are the best. :')


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